


Winter Depression

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Prodigal Son One-Shots And Drabbles [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Depression, Exhaustion, Existential Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Martin Whitly's A+ Parenting, Not A Happy Ending, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Sad, Suicidal Thoughts, Tired Malcolm Bright, Winter, it's not a big thing here but i have, thoughts, yeah remember watkins and malcolm's 'connection'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: Malcolm doesn't like the cold.
Series: Prodigal Son One-Shots And Drabbles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164734
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Winter Depression

Snow crunches under Malcolm's boots, cold air seeping in through the edges of his clothes.

His chest hurts when he breathes in. He can smell and taste the snow and ice in the air, the coldness in itself serving to make his head whirl. He's never liked the cold, not since he was a little boy. Cold reminds him of basements, darkness, secrets, boxes, blood. Cold reminds him of the chill of blades against his skin, wrists bound by metal, shaking, shivering, scared. Cold reminds him of the first time he touched a corpse, warm fingertips against cool skin, trembling hands searching for a heartbeat, finding absolutely nothing where he knows a pulse should be. Cold reminds him of the feeling he gets when he faces his father, hand trembling, stomach twisting, heart dropping to his stomach like a glacier into the ocean, racing waters and violent waves knocking him off balance, pushing him deeper, trapped under a suffocating sheet of ice. Cold reminds him of his nightmares, breathing out and seeing smoke puff from trembling lips.

So it's no surprise that he puffs himself up during the colder seasons like an animal growing out their winter coat. It's really the only time he dresses more or less casual out in public, and the only time he feels comfortable doing so. Certain behaviors and things from his childhood had stuck with him like glue, and _proper clothing_ was one of them. But winter has always been one of very few occasions he deems it safe to shed his suits and don more… _comfortable_ apparel.

Today, he's clad in the puffiest jacket he could find, wool-lined on the inside with faux fur around the collar and sleeves. Underneath he's piled on _three_ T-shirts, _two_ pairs of sweatpants and boots that extend a few inches below the kneecaps. The scarf that usually resides in the back of his closet untouched until wintertime is snug around his neck, puffed up to protect his ears, but it doesn't keep the tips from stinging as the cold air nips at them anyway, and he regrets not bringing a hat. With a sigh that exhales a burst of cold smoke from his lips, Malcolm lifts a gloved hand and tugs his scarf up a little to press his cheek into it, the other one lifting to touch his right ear. His fingers tremble as he cups the side of his head, rubbing his ear to warm it up.

Malcolm doesn't like the cold.

Cold is violating, always painful, terrifying, confusing.

Cold is the fear prickling down his spine, goosebumps on his arm, hairs on the back of his neck rising, ice in his stomach freezing over like an ocean that can form and melt in an instant.

(Cold is lips on his neck and tears on his face and things he's too young to understand.)

… Malcolm doesn't like the cold.

Malcolm breathes in, lungfuls of crisp, cool, _burning_ \- and breathes out again, lips shuddering as he comes to a stop, and realizes that perhaps walking wasn't the best idea. He doesn't even know what he's doing out here; there's nothing to do at work right now and Malcolm doesn't have anywhere to be. He should be… at home. In his apartment. Existing just because he did.

He's tired of existing.

Malcolm shivers, nuzzling the side of his face against his glove, and trudges forward to drop down onto an empty bench in the frozen grass, the snow having long been brushed off and lying in clumps around the seat. It's still cold when he sits down, and it shocks him to his very core for a second, ice flooding through his veins and drawing an instinctive shudder from his body. Ever breathtaking and ever unwelcome, the cold wraps itself around him, stinging his ears and his face and what little skin of his neck is exposed like quick, painful kisses, dancing across his skin with touches as light and feathery as fingertips against his face, brushing against his lips, hands cupping his cheeks and his chin. He hunches in on himself instinctively, drawing his scarf up further around himself and wrapping his arms around his body in a tight hug, breathing heavily.

He's tired of existing. His life is as trapping and he feels as stuck as he did when he was younger. An endless loop of drama and misery - and Malcolm is a Whitly. Sometimes he thrives on drama, as his family tends to. And sometimes it suffocates him, chokes him, buries him deep and Malcolm doesn't know how much more of it he can take. Thirty years old and a prisoner, constantly; a prisoner to his father, to his manipulations. A prisoner to every basement he's been locked in, chained up in. A prisoner to his own mind, to his night terrors, his hallucinations, his fear and anxiety and his trauma. A prisoner to his family, who he _loves_ , yes, he loves them _so_ much - and that love traps him, binds him tight, and holds him like nothing else ever could.

A prisoner to this _life_ , to this _job_ , where the only relief he gets comes from solving murders, finding killers like his father, saving people like he couldn't save those twenty-three victims-

A prisoner to himself. And his guilt. And his pain.

He wishes he could move on. Pack up and leave, like he left for DC, for Quantico. He wishes he thought it would make a difference where he went, as if all of this wouldn't follow him somehow. As if he could leave, leave behind his family and the friends he had made. Temporary friends, for sure, he knew that. JT and Dani and Edrisa were great, but Malcolm knows better than to expect relationships to last. Something always went wrong. They hadn't liked him from the start - well, Edrisa had, but… she was different. She liked him. She _liked_ him. Malcolm couldn't fathom why. And he's not ready to admit that it scares him a little more than he's letting on.

Maybe he likes her, too.

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, as Eve's face flickers across his mind's eye, _it's not worth it._

Maybe he could leave.

He stares out for a moment, head in his hands, fingers bunched against his scarf.

It's not the first time, but Malcolm wonders what it would be like to not… exist. He doesn't want to die, not really. More so he just wants to vanish, blip and disappear as if he were never there.

(He's too scared of what might happen, though. What the world would turn into.)

He's too scared it wouldn't make a difference, because that would mean _he_ doesn't make a-

He thinks of Martin and Gil, late-night phone calls, a police officer at his door, in his hallway, his father in the dining room stirring tea with a smile on his face. The memory of that night is so permanently ingrained into his mind Malcolm doesn't think anything could erase it, but the most memorable thing was the moment he turned to Gil, with the most serious expression he could muster, trying to relay to an adult he wanted to trust that something bad was going to happen, and praying with every fiber of his being that despite whatever Martin said, he'd be believed.

And he was.

Malcolm takes another breath, air cold against his teeth, and drops his head.

He does make a difference.

It's not enough to relieve him of whatever's pressing down on him right now, the shadow looming over him dragging him into the darkness that he finds he can never quite escape.

He's just a little too tired right now to try.

Yeah, Malcolm doesn't like the cold.

He could do without the winter depression, too.


End file.
